


Contrarium Aetheres

by network



Series: Contrarium Aetheres [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Family Relationships - Freeform, Futurism, Gods, Magic, Other, Politics, Royalty, Slow Build, The Aether, The End, The Nether, The Overworld, War, Worldbuilding, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/network/pseuds/network
Summary: It's been four months since a new, unforeseen threat killed Herobrine, Emperor of the Underworlds, and left his daughter to take his throne. Now, this entity threatens the balance of Minecraftia once again. Better prepared, will the four realms be able to unite in the face of possible annihilation, or will they fail alone?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Just a little warning ahead, this prologue is rather long and full of description, but unfortunately it's necessary so you can get a good idea of what the end is like, as well as setting up a few mysteries and future plot points.  
> If you really aren't in the mood for reading description, you can skip until the line "My escort leaves me at the door, and I enter alone.". After that, it's all pretty necessary lore/world/character-building, sorry!  
> I hope I can make it up for you with future updates, though. This is going to be a pretty long and developed fic, but if that doesn't sound too bad then you might like it! :)  
> Thanks for reading

I have to say, I’m uneasy here. The end. It’s almost like home, but off. The Aether’s blue skies and endless greenery are long forgotten. Here, a dark purple expanse sparks and hisses, like a night sky gone mad. The stone here is marred, a pale yellow and scarred, cracked and broken. Trees grow here, somehow – trunks a black darker than any overworld tree, leaves whiter than fresh winter snow. I haven’t seen much grass since his exit from the portal-cave, but what I’ve seen has been white too, inverted from its usual green. It’s beautiful, if I’m honest, but it unsettles me all the same. Almost familiar sky islands glisten like suns on the darkened sky, palaces and castles shining under artificial light in all their glory.

I follow my escort as the stone smoothens out, and the sky lightens. Lengthy expanses turn to streets, then roads. Black and silver buildings start to grow to the sky, like flowers searching for sun, and I can see the outlines of the inner city come into view on the horizon. The towers, like the rest of this civilisation, are far more advanced than anything even the Aether can create. Sharp edges and shining glass seem to hold the sky up like pillars, while large streets hold the limited foot traffic that this dimension needs – after all, over ninety percent of the population can teleport – mostly seeming to house the few humans here, and those of the natives that prefer to walk.

We eventually reach the central plaza – a grand park with obsidian paths and glowing birds, and water so black it mimics the void. Willow-like trees brush their chalky leaves on dark walls, and string lights sway gently from their branches. At the centre sits a silver fountain, light shimmering off the inky water as it flows upwards, seemingly. Around the park sits the true plaza – the complete Government. Left is the Supreme Court, a short, white building, with a dome roof seemingly made of glass. To the right is Parliament, a similarly white building made of three tall spires and an even taller central tower connected to the spires with bridges that glow white in the dark sky. And straight ahead is the palace, where we’re heading. It’s a deep purple stone, likely smoothened down obsidian, with intricate veins of shades and tones. Into the stone is carved various symbols, which I presume is an older language of some sort. The current written form uses the standard alphabet, and I make a mental note to look into it later. White ivy-like vines twirl against the building, glowing golden flowers buried in the cluster of stalks, making the palace glow for seemingly no reason. Large, pointed windows and the turreted roof sets the palace apart from the rest of the town centre. It’s millennia old, built for the head council to live in, and converted when _she_ had arrived.

As we enter, I suspect that I would’ve been searched top to bottom, even with my escort, if I hadn’t been given the highest possible level of clearance (except from _hers_ , of course). The entrance-hall glimmers from thousands of suspended gems that glow like stars. Portraits cover the walls – historical figures, head-councilmen, and, now, the monarch, her stern face gracing the wall in (by far) the largest painting of all. Chips of silver inlaid into the marble floor glimmer against the light, a pale grey carpet lightly decorated with silver threads leading up the large, stately staircase. Deep black walls mirror the dotted lights within their void-like darkness.

Large, pointed archways trimmed with detailed silver veins and tiny gems lead us through tall chambers and hallways, until we reach the grandest door I’ve seen so far – it’s black, and completely smooth, with crystals and gems dotted like stars to create a dragon-like constellation, circled around – protecting – the most beautiful gem I’ve seen – golden, the size of my hand, and veined with deeper shades. It’s appropriately ornate, I consider, with what sits behind the heavily guarded entryway.

My escort leaves me at the door, and I enter alone.

I’m left breathless, even if I expected nothing less. The room is tall – probably over two stories, even with the palace’s considerably tall floors – and twice as large as my own throne room. The space shimmers with every head turn – the void black obsidian glows against the silver chandeliers that accentuate the room’s tremendous height, veined with silver; like branches that root from the throne outwards. The fantastical “branches” spread their way throughout the room – scaling columns and walls, even the ceiling. They glow with a flowing magic of some category, illuminating the room even more, in all its glory. A pathway is presented before me, a route up to the throne made of silver-roots that twist and waltz with each other to indicate a grand route towards the single person, the one individual, who may have the most power of any being in all the realms at this current moment. Her throne is entirely silver, weaved of the same intricate threads that grip the room. They form arches that would frame her head and body, securing another – even larger – of the previous golden gems in their grip. It radiates a delicate power – peaceful and beautiful, but also powerful and dominant. She isn’t even sat upon her grand throne – instead she waits next to it, seemingly watching this half of her kingdom from the grand windows behind her throne. After a moment she turns, and, without even acknowledging me, gracefully seats herself on her throne.

There’s a small pause, while she waits for me to start, to say my piece, but my words stick in his throat. I haven’t seen her since she was five – a small child, barely even a viable heir, clutching her father’s hand and messing with his crown. And yet here she is, her father’s crown nested on her dark brown hair that she directly inherited from him too – with all her features. I hadn’t noticed it as much when she had been so small, but almost every one of her features mimics her father’s – my brother’s, with frightening accuracy. She has paler skin, from her sun-less environment, but her hook nose and stern lips are all the same, along with her shaped jawline, and, of course, her eyes. Like windows into the heart of a star they watch me – all white, glowing faintly with an ethereal power. The crown she wears is silver and gold, framing purple and red jewels to represent her two realms; Infernalis and Euliea, the Nether and the End.

I breathe down my fear, and speak a single line that may change the fate of all four realms;

                “I need your help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reupload of the old chapter two, though I suggest that you re-read it if you read the old one, as many details have been changed, and it has been significantly extended. Enjoy! :)

Gyllene:

    White ceilings adorned with gold and pale hues greet me as my eyes blink open, adjusting to the bright Aetherian morning sun. Light streams through my silken curtains, illuminating strips of air that dance with dust in the cool air. I’m accustomed to my room’s beauty, as I have been for the last 19 years, though even with my complacency I can still appreciate its beauty. The floor is a white marble warmed with soft fur rugs; the walls a pure white decorated with golden trims and flowers, panels made of the beautiful metal that continues to the ceiling, where it frames a mural scene of the seasons and worlds; spring - the overworld, summer – the nether, autumn – the end, and winter – the aether. The bed I sit up in is thrice as wide as me and twice as long, with white furs and thick bedsheets atop a gilded golden frame. Around the room are spread sparsely various doors – one to a large private bathroom, another to my study-library, another to my wardrobe, and finally, 2 grand golden doors – one to the rest of the west-wing, and the other to my balcony, that juts out from the front of the castle for a most spectacular view.  
    I dress as plainly as I can, my status considered, in a soft day-dress and thick fur coat, and I scoop up my latest novel from my bed-side. I’m not due for any engagements until after lunch at noon, so I leave onto my balcony, and even I must pause for a moment at the view. Sweeping my eyes across the Aether, from this vantage I can watch nearly all of my father’s kingdom, white and gold like a star as it glimmers in the bright yet cold daylight. I head towards my favourite spot – a slightly elevated ledge with enough of a surface to support myself on. With an adjustment of my coat, I begin to read.

  
    The morning passes by in very much the same fashion – the biting Aetherian air warming into a soft breeze as the sun rises against the pale sky. I make good progress into my novel – “omvänd himmel av den dolda” – as the sound of horses’ hooves echoes from across the moat-bridge. I peer up from the pages of my book, to see my father on the back of his white steed, followed closely by a clocked figure on a darker grey horse; brown, purple and gold cloak marking them as a army-general. I study them as closely as I could from my perch. Whereas most generals wore the deep hoods of their cloaks down around their shoulders, theirs was drawn over to shadow their face. Intrigued, I mark my progress in my novel and climb back down, heading inside when there’s a light knock at my door. Kristin, one of my handmaidens, informs me that I’ve been summoned by my father to the informal sitting room in our wing, and I follow her down the gilded halls as she leaves me at the door of the sitting room.  
    I enter, and inside is the anonymous general, sat rigidly in an overstuffed armchair, hands folded passively in their lap as they converse politely with my father. Notch smiles warmly at me as I enter, rising to greet me as I embrace him, turning to the general.

  
    “General Solmåne, this is my daughter, princess Gyllene”, he introduces, and I curtsey. In return, the general bows deeply, as my father continues, turning to me. “She has been assigned as your personal guard until the current political turbulence has been subdued. I know you may not agree with having another person to protect you, but it’s becoming an unfortunate necessity as the situation worsens.” I nod reluctantly as he continues “She’s been assigned a suite next to yours and will supervise you anytime you leave our wing.” Another small smile, and; “I’m sorry that your freedom will be dashed, but this should only be a temporary loss. Your wellbeing is too important to me to leave it to chance.” He once again turns to the general. “Could you accompany her to the dining-room? I’m sure you two have a lot to discuss of the arrangements, and lunch is about to be served.”

  
    Solmåne, who I’ve already elected to call Sol if she’ll allow it, bows to first my father, then me, as she silently follows me from the room, through the halls. The air is uncomfortably silent, and I desperately wish to strike up a conversation, but a slight anxiety tells me to wait until we are more comfortable. If I really am to lose so much freedom, I wish to at least know who to. And a general? Surely she’d be more well-employed in defence planning and emergency procedures? I bit my lip slightly as I ponder the situation in my head. There’s obviously an important element in this that I’m presently unaware of, which concerns me. My father had never had a reason to keep secrets before, and following me now seemed to be a massive one. I decide that worrying over the issue in my head now will get me nowhere; I need to know more of the situation, and speaking to my guard may be a source of some basics.  
    We arrive in the stunning private dining room, and Sol takes a seat across from me as servants begin to bring out our first course – a deep, rich soup that warms the depths of my soul as I sip it gently. I’m slowly working up the courage to ask her some questions when her voice startles me. “What do you wish to know?”. I look up, surprised, and my confusion must’ve been clear on my face. “I can tell that you wish to know more about me, which is only fair within limits.” Her voice is deep and rich, and slightly tired, too powerful for a general’s. “Ask away”.  
    “Why have you been assigned to me, and not towards the defences of the Aether?” I inquire, watching as she finishes her sip before lightly wiping away the excess from her lips.  
    “Your father ordered it.” Is her reply, and I can feel eyes on me, seemingly studying me as I have been her.  
    “And you agree with his orders?” Apparently thrown off a little by my reply, it’s a few seconds before her own, carefully chosen words and polite phrasing.  
    “Why would I not? You’re his daughter, his only child. Fathers will do anything for their children, in my experience. Even from an objective perspective, you’re his only heir. If you were to both die, the magic that runs in your bloodline could too. It could unbalance the seed and disrupt the peace of the four realms.” She pauses. “Plus, I’ll still be contributing. You will likely not require my services much of the time, and even when with you, I may be accompanying you to councils and meetings.”  
I nod slightly, leaning back as a request suddenly comes to mind. “Can I see your face?” It’s an outlandish, possibly disastrous and disrespectful request – her face is likely covered for a reason, but to my surprise and elation she simply shrugs, reaching for the hem of her garment as she pulls it back.  
    I don’t know what I expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t this; her face is completely normal, and I cannot find a reason for it to have been covered. She has a soft face, with round hazel eyes and dark hair, a button nose and thin lips. Along her cheeks is a light dusting of freckles, while a pink scar runs along the curve of her cheek. I smile at her, and she returns a tighter one, pulling her hood back up to hide her features from view once again.

  
There’s something central to this war being hidden from me, and I need to find out what.

  
    The thought is prominent in my mind as we finish the next courses of rich meat and warm desserts in a comfortable silence. Sol pages through reports while servants clear our dishes, and she once again escorts me on my return to my suite. I elect to check the more recent information from intelligence, a handmaiden bringing me a warm mug of tea as I enter my study, setting the cup down on the desk as I gather the reports placed there. There's a frustrating lack of detail  
on the current situation - most of the recent updates are just logistical issues, and I find myself slightly bored with the mundanity of it all. There's a god-killer out there - someone with seemingly enough power to conquer the four realms, and all we know of him is a basic description. Opening the file on Gumördare, as is the name given to him on his profile, I flick over to his description; tanned skin, dark hair, green eyes. Tall, thin, with furrowed brows and a soft face. Normal, average, in every way. From the attached sketch, he appeared to be a person you could find on almost any street, not someone capable of killing a god. Yet the longer I studied his face, the deeper and darker his pencilled eyes seemed to become, until they almost could stare into be soul.  
    I quickly close the folder, and lean back in the plush chair, taking another sip of tea. I don't have too much time to contemplate the situation, however the subject weighs heavily on my mind. Sighing, I rise and tidy away the reports, leaving my empty mug on the ornate desk. Tonight holds a late afternoon gathering of the court, and I intend to attend. As much as I, at times, actively dislike the scheming and backstabbing of the nobles, they act as a plentiful source of information - sometime just gossip, other times more genuine than just intriguing. With a few moments of mental preparation, I leave my study to summon my handmaidens.


	3. Chapter 3

I dip my head down a little as a handmaiden nests my golden tiara in my curls, which flow down to my mid back, shining a soft, pale brown. The dress I wear is a pale pink, with a bodice that rests high on my breast, tight until my waist where it flares outwards into a hoop skirt that touches the floor. The sleeves of the ballgown are long, with a tighter inner sleeve and loose outer sleeve. The dress is accented with white flowers across the neckline, bodice and top of the skirt, while light gold glitter dusts the skirt and sleeves. Another handmaiden secures a large, intricate gold necklace around my neck, and dusts my pale face with powder. I turn to face myself in the mirror, and smile, brown eyes decorated with a slight glimmer of pale pink. Thanking my handmaidens, I hear a knock at my door as Sol steps in, wearing a more ornately decorated version of her everyday cloak over functional yet beautiful white and gold armour, deep purple dress trousers and a white shirt, a golden sheath that I know contains a glowing diamond sword resting on the belt around her waist.

She inclines her head towards me, and silently follows me through the ornate door and gilded hallways. As we leave our wing, I notice the strange glances Sol is receiving from the courtiers who line the halls, beautifully dressed vipers watching her every move judgementally. This is something I’d quickly learnt when I’d been introduced to court a few years ago – the nobles and elites would kill _anyone_ they saw weakness in, whether literally or figuratively. While they wouldn’t target me or my father (or perhaps just haven’t yet), any mortal seen with us is a potential target, even someone as powerful as a general. Sol, if she notices them, seems to ignore them all, head held high as we reach the tall doors of the ballroom. The guards stationed by the doors open them slowly as we step through, onto a terrace looking out upon the grand room.

The terrace connects down to the main floor with two large marble staircases either side, accented with a pale blue carpet and ornate railings. The room below has _vorsan_ floors, a beautiful overworldian stone similar to marble, with veins of pastel pink, blue and cream, decorated with golden paints forming large, decorated tiles. The walls are white panels framed with gold and holding candle sconces and hanging vines with pale flowers of a multitude of colours, while the ceiling above is a series of coves, each one holding a beautiful fresco mural, of various settings. My father’s throne sits tall on a platform in front of the only wall with windows, my throne beside it, with tall pale curtains draped over the floor to ceiling stained glass arches. Chandeliers sparkle over the ballroom that’s already filled with courtiers, and many turn at the sound of the doors opening. A speaker at the foot of the stairs calls out my name and title as I descend the stairs, Sol following behind me silently until we reach the foot of the stairs, at which point she leaves more of a space between us as I head into the crowd, while Sol heads to my father’s throne, bowing before conversing with him in a low murmur.

Carefully sifting through the crowd, I probe the surrounding nobles lightly. While I technically haven’t inherited my father’s god-powers yet (as it would only pass down upon his (hopefully no time soon) death), I still had some of the magic that ran in my bloodline accessible to me today. With the basic sorcery skills I have, I can passively skim the surface emotions of those around me, with some effort. And tonight, the courtiers around me are radiating a mix of surprise and suspicion – for they know enough about the army to be aware that the mysterious figure currently conversing with their king, emperor, _god,_ is a general of the Aetherian army – but not enough to fully grasp her importance. And as I continue to drift through the tides of beautiful silks and pastels, I catch snippets of conversations. Hushed whispers that, to anyone else, would be inaudible, but with a slight effort to refine my hearing, I can easily catch onto them.

There’s whispers of the latest gossip – a high courtier, Melker, was recently accused of breaking Overworldian labour laws in the name of profit. Another noble, one lower in court called Calle, was discovered to have had an affair, and a child out of wedlock. Filtering out the haze of useless conversations, I exchange pleasantries as I sift through the thickening crowd, spotting three young women around my age, daughters of the three most powerful nobles in court.

There’s Irene Ahlander, daughter of Evert Ahlander, with her unusually (for Aetherian standards) dark skin, with green eyes and dark curls worn down her neck. And Elisabeth Drakenberg, the only child and therefore the heiress of Ingvar Drakenberg, who was a typically Aetherian woman, with pale skin, blue eyes and blonde hair in an elaborate series of braids and buns. And finally, Therese Svensson, daughter of Gjohl Svensson, with her brown eyes and dark hair worn in a crown framing her head.

The trio are friends – in the context of the court, of course, which is nowhere near a true friendship – and will one day be important players in this “game”. They greet me warmly, flocking around me such as ducklings may gather around their mother, gossiping about the latest news while studying my every movement, every response I give. It’s as tiring as it is intriguing, and I soon find myself sidling away from the conversation, gradually making my way to where my father stands, smiling warmly. By his side, there’s an air of comfortable silence as we watch the milling crowds from our slight elevation, Sol a strong presence behind us as she too studies the gathering. And in the mass I meet eyes with someone whose identity is of no secret to me.

Isak Friberg, a lower courtier with ambitions far greater than his ability, who would happily sell his own mother for an increased social rank. Throughout the night I find him watching me carefully, and it made the hairs on my arms stand on end with tension. _What is he planning?_


End file.
